


In the rose garden, I long to see your face

by skeleton_twins



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Banter, Fluff, Gardens & Gardening, Introspection, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-01-30 09:41:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12651018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeleton_twins/pseuds/skeleton_twins
Summary: The shooting leaves Oswald Cobblepot a changed man, licking his wounds he hides, never leaving his manor. He finds comfort with his new companion, Ivy Pepper, and his newfound love for gardening.Between the flowers, plants, and Jim Gordon's frequent visits, Oswald finds his chance to heal.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thekeyholder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thekeyholder/gifts).



> Many thanks to my writing partner, thekeyholder for not only betaing this story but encouraging me to work on it! I'm forever gratefull!!!

Oswald Cobblepot is a man of strategy; he plants full-fledged plans with a variety of vastly different potential outcomes into Gotham’s soil and watches them grow.

 

Sometimes they work, and Oswald can stand back and admire the results. Often times his schemes get chopped in half by his enemies with a pair of invisible shears, snipped at the bud before they have a real chance of sprouting, or in some cases, too much ambition drowns them, suffocating his ploys, snuffing out any life to them.

 

However he could never entirely predict Jim Gordon.

 

Maybe that was what drew Oswald, what made Jim Gordon so interesting: it was his ability to flip any of Oswald’s schemes on its head. Jim Gordon was not a man to be manipulated. There was no planning involved that Oswald could do that would win Jim over. His many attempts have only resulted in failure and a bruised pride.

 

So he stops trying.

 

It never curbs his attraction to the detective though, simply leaves Oswald craving for more.

 

So Oswald let his distance grow, staying in the shadows, out of the public eye and away from Jim Gordon. This wasn’t another tactic to lure Jim, it was simply Oswald being left without a plan for the first time in his life.

 

After recovering from the bullet wound and weeks of plotting to exact revenge on the man who had shot him, Nygma was back in Arkham with the help of GCPD. While Oswald thought Nygma deserved a lot more than imprisonment, he had sated his thirst for revenge, and really the last few months, retribution had been the only thing on his mind.

 

When the dust settles, and Nygma is gone, handcuffed and put away, Oswald’s a bit aimless. No longer mayor, no longer king of Gotham. Oswald doesn’t stray too far from his manor these days, staying away from Gotham crowds, civilians and criminal alike.

 

The first couple of months, Oswald is finally allowed to grieve properly for almost dying at the hands of someone he thought he loved, for the loss of the one henchman he truly thought was loyal, for practically losing everything. His family’s gone, his ambitions and plans are wasted, being mayor ‒ the one thing he knew that would make both his mother and father proud of him ‒ has been ripped from his hands. Oswald mourns the opportunities lost.

 

It takes weeks to remove the presences that trespassed and encroached in his home, his father’s home. Another week for nausea to subside at the fact the man who attempted to murder him was living here during his absence, it made Oswald want to burn every item inside, in case Nygma had touched it.

 

While Oswald has lost a great deal this year, he ended up gaining something he’s been wanting since he was a kid.

 

A friend.

 

Somehow, through the harrowing experience of suffering an abdominal gunshot wound, Oswald stumbled into a friendship with a young lady, who rescued him, nursed him back to health seemingly without any ill-intentions towards him.

 

Oswald offered Ivy, for some unknown reason that he still can’t wrap his head around, to live with him. It’s not as if the manor’s lacking the space, and having someone around drives the loneliness and silence away.

 

Ivy loved the manor, the space, the fact that she didn’t have to struggle for food, didn’t even have the hassle of cooking it since Olga took care of that. Her only complaint was that there weren't enough plants. A complaint that Oswald had now grown accustomed to hearing on almost a daily basis. Oswald never had any interest in gardening himself, apart from hearing the facts Ivy would spew at him.

 

Whenever she suggests a garden, he always answers the same thing: “I’ll think about it.”

 

What he finds with her proposal is that purpose he’s seeking. A distraction. Ivy discovers a neglected greenhouse on the edge of the property. It appears like it’s been forgotten, dirt clinging to the glass windows and vines curling around it as if nature is claiming it, ready to sink the conservatory into the Earth’s soil.

 

At first, he ignores it, simply staring curiously at the structure and burying any ideas before they can take form. But the ideas keep cropping up, thoughts of his mother’s favorite flowers and how the manor would liven up if there were lilies out back in the yard.

 

One day, Oswald arrives home with gardening tools. Tools, he proceeds to ignore until the next purchase is several packets of seeds. His thoughts lie with his mother, how she always enjoyed gardening. Those were always his fondest memories, stretched out, lying on the ground while his mother hummed and dug into the earth, leaving flowers behind.

 

He shows Ivy the seeds one day, almost immediately regrets doing so when she loudly screams, the noise ringing in his ear, and slaps at his arm. Almost. She’s beaming, ecstatic, smiling so wide that it’s contagious and Oswald can’t help but join in.   

 

It becomes something he enjoys, going outside and working on making his mark on this property. Oswald lets his mind wander while he gardens; he’s able to think more clearly with the fresh air, this gives him time to formulate strategies.

 

It’s refreshing.

 

It becomes a ritual, Ivy and him out back, sleeves rolled to his elbows and suit jacket gone, working on restoring the greenhouse to its former beauty.

 

It has been a process, a long and enduring one, but after several weeks, finally the greenhouse is clean and tidy, functional, ready to have life grow once more inside it.

 

He starts with lilies, before branching off to orchids and roses. He plants inside the greenhouse and outside, along the back of the manor. With Ivy’s help, the backyard becomes rich with vibrant colors, soft pastels, and touches of violets and dark hues in between. Flowers of every shape and size.

 

It’s a flower garden that Oswald takes pride in. One that he knows his mother would approve of. Oswald never imagined having a green thumb, never thought that his hands were able to create anything other than destruction.

 

The sun was beating down on him, tiny beads of sweat collecting on the nape of his neck as his slender fingers dig deep into the warmth of the soil. His mind wanders as he plants the seeds, dropping the tiny pip into the earth before moving onto the next hole. The direction of his thoughts always leads to a certain detective.

 

Oswald pushes Jim Gordon out of his mind, though never completely. Oswald doesn’t think he’s capable of doing that, but simply lets him fall back off the line, allowing other blurry thoughts to take focus and shape.

 

He hasn’t seen Jim since Nygma’s incarceration, barely got two glances at the detective during the whole affair. He didn’t know what stung more, Nygma’s inadequate punishment or Jim’s indifference towards him.

 

Oswald knew the answer. At least he can say that Nygma’s suffering, his brain cells slowly rotting away from the boredom within Arkham’s walls.

 

“Pengy!” Ivy sings, skipping down the dirt path along the garden.

 

“I told you not to call me that!” Oswald snaps, before taking a second to bat back down the annoyance at the young girl, tries to remind himself that she is, after all, just a child.

 

He looks over his shoulder, turning his body slightly towards her, and sees Ivy resting her elbows against the top of the wooden fence, head tilted to the side, wearing a small frown.

 

Oswald feels a bit guilty for snapping at her, so he tries to keep the bite out of his voice when he asks, “What is it, Ivy?”

 

Ivy must have noticed his attempt because she grins.  “You got company.”

 

Company? Oswald thinks. “Who is it?”

 

“Uh, that detective guy Selina knows.”

 

“Detective guy…?” Oswald repeats, confused until he realizes just who she’s meaning.

 

“Jim?!” He shrieks, struggling to get upright and to his feet.  “Jim Gordon?!”

 

Ivy snaps her fingers. “That’s him! I told him you were in the backyard and that I would let you know he’s here.”

 

“Why on Earth would you do that?!” Oswald gesticulates wildly.

 

The frown returns. “I don’t get it. What’s the big deal? I thought you would like the company. I mean, I hate to say it, Pengy, but it’s not like you're popular with visitors.”

 

“The big deal is I look like I’ve been rolling in the dirt for the last hour. I don’t even want to think about how I smell.” Oswald grimaces at the mere thought.

 

He looks ridiculous. He took Ivy’s suggestion of wearing more casual apparel when working in the garden. So he traded his suit with all its intricate layers for a pair of dark denim jeans and a plain white shirt. Something he was completely against since anything denim he considered to be untouchable, a material that should be burned on sight, but Ivy, after two long hours, convinced him otherwise.

 

_“You dress weird.” Ivy bluntly said, not beating around the bush on her feelings concerning his wardrobe._

 

_“Gee, Ivy, tell me how you really feel.”_

 

_Ivy stood in front of his closet, going through the rows of clothes hanging, running her fingertips along the sleeves of his suits. “Your clothes look sooooo old, like you time traveled to another century and bought them.”_

 

_“It’s called having style.” Oswald yanked one of his shirts from her hands, limping towards the mirror._

 

_“I forgive you because you’re young and clearly haven’t seen anyone dress with good taste, but I assure you, this-” Oswald points back to his closet, “is respectable fashion. Clothes only a gentleman would wear.”_

 

_“Riiiiiight,” Ivy drawled, doubtful at Oswald’s claim._

 

_“But...” Oswald conceded, “-you do make a valid point. A gentleman shouldn’t wear his finest clothes while gardening.”_

 

_Ivy clapped happily, letting out a little squeal. “We have to go shopping!”_

 

_Oswald restrained himself from sighing, Ivy seemed to enjoy shopping. She also seemed to think Oswald’s money was endless and had spent a good penny on buying herself a new wardrobe. He knew how she got when shopping, a frightful experience, and now he was offering to let her shop for him._

 

_He hoped he wouldn’t regret this._

 

Oswald completely regrets his decision of listening to Ivy.

 

“Oooooh, I get it, you totally have a thing for him! That’s why you’re freaking out!”

 

His cheeks turn bright red, brighter than the tomatoes growing in the greenhouse. “N-No!”

 

Ivy’s whole face lights up at finding out something about him. “You do! Oh, this is wonderful! I’ll go let him know he can come back here.”

 

“Ivy!”

 

It’s too late, she has already prance away, a blur of red hair disappearing around the corner of the manor.

 

Oswald pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. He doesn’t have enough time to run inside for a quick change of clothes, he barely has enough time to pat down his hair, running his fingers through to make it somewhat presentable. Oswald starts walking towards the manor, hoping to meet Ivy and Jim halfway before they come to him. He can’t understand why, but he wishes to keep the garden a secret from Jim. He shuts the gate behind him, the fence is high enough to block most of the garden’s view.He’s practically sprinting towards the manor.

 

He could hear the sounds of Ivy’s voice, being loud as usual, as Jim and her round the corner. Jim appears to be uncomfortable walking along beside the cheery girl, who by the looks of it was talking the detective’s ear off.

 

Oswald panics as he realizes he’s still wearing his gardening gloves, so he quickly tosses them into some bushes before meeting Jim’s eyes. The usually stoic, almost stern expression is already painted on the detective’s face.

 

Jim narrows his eyes at Oswald’s action, looking at the bushes before returning his suspicious gaze to Oswald. He opens his mouth to comment, but stops when he takes in Oswald’s casual attire.

 

Jim’s eyes widen, almost comically, when both men finally stop a few feet in front of each other. Oswald squeezes his fingers, digging his nails into the palm of his hand. He fights the urge to cross his arms over his chest, wanting to cover himself. Not a lot of men look like Jim Gordon, certainly not Oswald, which is why Oswald usually has at least three layers of clothes to hide behind.

 

He’s scrawny. Too bony. Too sharp at the edges.

 

Then there’s Jim Gordon. Blond hair and glistening dark blue eyes, sun-kissed skin without a single trace of a blemish. Clothes that properly fit him, hugging his body in all the right spots, never masking the strength that lies underneath his plain suits.

 

“Why are you filthy?” His eyebrows knit together as he casts another glance over the gangster, eyes lingering on the specs of dirt covering his arms, before affixing his gaze on the smear of soil across Oswald’s cheekbone.

 

Ivy smiles at Oswald, proudly like a sister would at their older brother’s achievements, as she starts to answer Jim’s question. “Oh, he was in the gar-”  
  
“Ivy! Why don’t you get the detective something to drink. I’m sure he’s parched. Perhaps the lemonade you said you would make earlier?”  
  
Oswald should have expected Ivy not to follow. She pauses, her mouth falls open as she tilts her head in confusion. “What lemonade?”  
  
He refrains from rolling his eyes at her, takes a breath before giving her a specific look, hoping that she'll understand.  
  
Luckily, she does.  
  
"Ooooh, right. The lemonade. Gotcha." Ivy blatantly winks as she passes, so painfully obvious that even Jim  noticed.  
  
"Thank you, Ivy."  
  
"You're welcome, Pengy!"  
  
Oswald slides his eyes shut, cringing at Ivy's use of her recent nickname for him in front of the detective. His eyes open as soon as he hears the sounds of Ivy's humming starting to fade as she skips further away.

 

He avoids eye contact with the detective, twisting around and pretending to study some flowers, thumbing the soft petals of the rose bushes next to them. Jim’s stare burns through him, searing, as if Jim could see straight through him, right down to his bones. As if Oswald didn’t feel conspicuous before, standing before Jim without bundles of expensive fabric shielding him. Oswald can only suffer in silence, embarrassment making his blood rush to his face, warming his cheeks.

 

Jim’s searching, always a detective even when he’s not trying. He’s watching Oswald closely, looking for a giveaway, anything revealing in Oswald’s actions. But Oswald tries to give nothing away; instead, he beckons the detective to join him on some stone benches close by.

 

Oswald’s almost surprised when Jim doesn’t object, that he sits beside him without the usually gruff and blunt refusal. Suddenly, it’s overwhelming. While earlier Oswald found the slight breeze a warm welcome, especially after being under the sun for hours, tucked away in the corner of his garden,now the wind only seems to waff Jim’s cologne towards him, burying the scent of Jim deep within his nostrils.

 

Everything seems to slide into place, like a missing puzzle piece Oswald hasn’t been aware he lost. Jim’s presence blends into the surroundings effortlessly, naturally, as if he belongs here with Oswald in his backyard.

 

Oswald dares a glance at the detective and discovers Jim’s eyes are elsewhere, no longer watching him closely. He’s admiring Oswald’s handiwork, gaze drifting over the flowers scattered throughout the bushes. His chest sharply spasms as his mind so easily crafts a future together. Early mornings, Jim sitting on the stone bench, hand firmly curled around the handle of a mug, sipping freshly brewed coffee, watching Oswald at work in his garden.

 

His pulse spikes as his daydream unfolds, an illusion of domesticity between him and the detective. It’s difficult to ignore the man just a few feet away. Jim’s hand is in a loose fist, knuckles resting against the surface of the stone. It’s a lonesome sight. An empty hand without something to hold. Jim wears loneliness like a suit. A pariah in his own workplace, never truly settling in place with the GCPD despite how long he’s been working there. Oswald understands that feeling of unwelcomeness. Never belonging among his peers.

 

He wants to comfort the detective, wants to slide his fingers between the spaces, aligning their calluses, squeezing Jim’s hand to remind him he isn’t alone, but the anticipated recoil from Jim stops him in his tracks.

 

Oswald has to remind himself that Jim Gordon would rather be alone than being friends with him.

 

Jim’s next words confirm Oswald’s thoughts. Suspicion dripping off the detective’s tongue ‒ it’s always present in Oswald’s company. Jim Gordon sees nothing but a criminal.

 

“Why is a missing fourteen-year-old girl hiding out on your property?” There’s an accusation buried, hidden underneath his question. Jim stares straight ahead, his face a stone, free of any expression and betraying nothing.

 

Oswald huffs, rolling his eyes. Jim thinking the worst of him is nothing new. “Last time I checked, detective, Ivy wasn’t missing. And no, I did not kidnap her, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

 

“So why is Ivy Pepper hanging around then?” Jim turns to face him.

 

For a moment, Oswald is tempted not to dignify that with a response. He fumes in silence, staring at the detective, beyond offended. Oswald hasn't left his manor in months, he cooperated with the police, deserted his chance of seeking revenge against Nygma and yet, here is Jim, acting as if Oswald's still the enemy.

 

He looks away as he speaks, ashamed at how his voice breaks, hates how after all this time he’s still affected by the betrayal. "After Ed… After the shooting, Ivy found me washed up on the shore. She took care of me, nursed me back to health."

 

"She's an actual friend, I didn't have to force her into it either." The jab rolls off his tongue easily and the moment the retort leaves his lips, he regrets it.

 

Jim just nods, shifting uneasily, undoubtedly recalling their relationship at the beginning. Oswald's desperate, clumsy attempts at friendship with the detective.

 

The detective must have realized he fumbled with his approach and quickly retreats back into something resembling neutral grounds.

 

“Beautiful place.”

 

Oswald narrows his eyes at the sudden switch of topic. Gordon is obvious with his soothing attempts. “Yes, I inherited the place from my father. Now what-"

 

"But you're the one maintaining it, right?"

 

Oswald watches Jim rise from the stone bench, pointing to their surroundings. The abrupt action distracts Oswald from noticing that Jim's heading towards the wooden fence.

 

Jim barely gets a glance over the fence before Oswald is shoving himself between the detective and the wooden enclosure.

 

Blue eyes flicker away from the fence behind Oswald and lock once more on the gangster. Oswald shifts, feeling trapped under Jim's focus.

 

Warmth floods his cheeks as Jim gives Oswald another look-over, sizing him up. Jim steps forward, forcing Oswald to scramble backward into a corner until he's pressed against the fence. Close enough to feel the grooves of the wood digging into his back.

 

“You never did answer my question." Jim's husky voice sends Oswald's heart racing. "Why are you so filthy?"  
  
Oswald's knees almost buckle at the way the question slips off Jim’s tongue. His mind explodes with images of himself kneeling before the detective, covered with something very much different than soil. He scrambles, fingers pressing against the fence to steady himself. The pain of wood splinters catching on his skin, burying deep into his fingertips, draws him away from his fantasies and back to the present.  
  
He's certain that Jim's phrasing wasn't intentional, that it must have been Oswald's own imagination, his brain boiled from being out in the sun much too long.  
  
Oswald's throat's dry, a sudden rasp accompany his voice when he speaks, "Forgive me, detective. I hadn't anticipated entertaining guests today."

 

It's not an answer. Oswald doesn't understand why he's so hesitant to admit the truth about his garden. It’s a simple explanation. A harmless truth. Deflecting only makes Oswald appear guilty of wrongdoing. Only fuels Jim's suspicions.  
  
Taking a bullet to the gut and being dumped into Gotham's rivers left him a defeated man. Imprinted a permanent bruise on his ego. Nygma infected his life like wild weeds, growing within his garden, ripped apart his pride, torn it from the root, leaving Oswald stunted.  
  
The only thing Oswald has left is his bed of flowers. Here, he has discovered a haven. A chance lies among the dirt. Life bursting from the seeds, blossoming into something captivating.  Each petal brings a sense of security, witnessing flowers ascending towards the skies, an assurance that even the smallest can start again.  
  
Revealing his garden is unveiling himself, pushing the curtains apart and expose just how vulnerable Ed's actions left him. His pride is in shambles, not missing, and he would rather Jim Gordon think him a criminal than Jim pitying him.  
  
Oswald brusquely questions Jim's presence after seeing Jim's mouth open once more, cutting him off before another accusation could fall from his lips. Resignation creeping into his voice. "Why are you here, James?"

 

Jim pauses. That’s something that flares up curiosity inside of Oswald. Jim Gordon rarely hesitates, a man of action, never settling down for a second. Sometimes Jim feels untouchable. Oswald can feel his presence. Always some article about the GCPD in the news, maybe even a photo of the detective. But Oswald hangs onto the coattails of a ghost. Just a blur of a passing body, always stuck in Oswald's peripheral vision, always out of Oswald's reach.

 

Oswald braces himself for whatever Jim has to say. It must be serious as the detective avoids looking at him at first, almost as if he's building up the nerve to broach whatever pressing matter it is.

 

A grim expression passes over his face, muscles in his jaw twitching before he returns his gaze on the gangster, leaving Oswald unnerved by the direct stare.

 

"An attempt was made on Edward Nygma's life last night at Arkham. Someone switched his meds with poison. Do you know anything about that?"

 

At first glance, the question appears innocent, but Jim doesn't try to hide his suspicions. His face hard as stone, watching Oswald for any reaction. He's really asking if Oswald's involved or not.

 

He gives, just not the tell Jim's expecting. Oswald doesn't even realize he's rubbing at the spot where Ed had shot him. A flare of anger spikes, and Oswald slips, words come flying out before he has the chance to bite his tongue.

 

"Funny. Here I thought you didn't care about the wellbeing of Arkham patients. Ed must be special. He's actually _guilty_ of his crimes that landed him there and you're so concerned about how he's getting treated."

 

Jim flinches, a flash of pain in the detective's eyes, but just as quickly as it happens, it's gone. His voice is strained, gritting his teeth. "Just answer the question. Were you involved?"

 

"No," Oswald answers with a resounding no, short blunt emphasis on the syllable that was almost harsh to the ears.

 

"Where were you yesterday?"

 

Easy. Oswald hasn't left the manor in months."Here. Ivy can attest to that."

 

Jim doesn't look convinced. "Doesn’t mean that you weren’t involved. Wouldn’t be the first time you’ve orchestrated something without getting your hands dirty. Can she attest to any anyone else being here?"

 

"Can I attest- _what_?" Oswald looks over Jim's shoulders to find the young redhead. Her face scrunching up in confusion at Jim's wording.

 

Jim turns, crossing his arms as he faces Ivy. Oswald rolls his eyes at such a tawdry intimidation tactic. Jim clearly didn't realize just who he was dealing with. Ivy was oblivious to body language, not the kind to read between the lines.

 

"Did you witness any meeting between Oswald and anyone else? Maybe yesterday morning?"

 

Neither one expects the loud chortle from the girl.

 

"Oswald having a visitor?" Ivy snickers.  "As if! You're the first visitor we've had in months!"

 

His face immediately burns at Ivy's candor. Oswald quickly glances at Jim to see his reaction and is relieved to find the detective not looking over at him.

 

"He never wants to go anywhere," Ivy complains. "He's like some kind of kermit."

 

Oswald pinches the bridge of his nose, correcting the girl, "Hermit, Ivy… the term you're looking for is hermit."

 

"That's what I said!"

 

"No, you didn't"

 

"Well, whatever," Ivy flips her hair over her shoulder. "Do you know how long it took to convince him to go shopping?

 

" _Forever_!" Ivy draws out the word. "But it was totally worth it."

 

Ivy links her arms around Oswald's. "Doesn't he looks so much better without all those layers?"

 

"IVY!"

 

At this point, there's no doubt Oswald's face is red as a tomato. He pulls away, it's a struggle at first, Ivy doesn't seem to want to let go, but he manages extracts his arm from her locked grip.

 

"What?" She innocently asks, but Oswald sees through her veiled attempt. There was nothing innocent about the statement. People often underestimated Ivy, something that reminded Oswald of his earlier days, but she had her moments. A coiled snake, hidden in tall grass, waiting to strike.

 

"It's not like it isn't true. I mean, you dressed like such an old man. Doesn't he look good, detective?"

 

Jim's mouth drops open, gobsmacked at the question as Ivy stares at him, waiting for his answer. Her blunt nature tends to throw people for a loop.

 

"I-" Jim’s panicked gaze flickers between Ivy and Oswald before landing on Oswald, almost expectant as if Oswald was going to help Jim out of this mess.

 

Oswald wouldn't dare, plus he is curious to hear the detective's answer as well.

 

Heat floods his body as Jim's eyes run over the length of Oswald's body, once more taking in his casual appearance. Jim stutters out a clipped yes, much to Oswald's surprise.

 

His mouth goes dry, throat suddenly parched as he processes Jim's words. The detective shifts uncomfortably at Oswald's silence and Ivy beaming at her success.

 

Oswald finds his tongue, taking pity on the detective and swiftly changing the topic. "Ignore her, detective. That's what I typically do."

 

"Hey! That's not nice!"

 

He snorts. "It's also not nice to be rude to one's guests, you little heathen."

 

Ivy crosses her arms over her chest, sticking out her tongue at the mobster. Oswald returns the gesture, forgetting Jim's presence.

 

Oswald straightens his back, turning back towards the detective and noticing Jim glancing back and forth between the two. A tiny smile curling at the corner at his lips, amused at their bickering. The ghost of the smile vanishing as soon as Jim realizes Oswald's watching him. His expression falling back to the straight-faced detective.

 

Jim clears his throat, once more asking Ivy, "So you didn't overhear him on the phone? Anything about Arkham?"

 

Out of the corner of Oswald's eye, he notices Ivy throwing him looks, startled at the mention of the asylum in front of Oswald. Ivy was aware of Oswald's stint at the prison for the insane, having discovered many of nights to Oswald's screaming awake from his nightmares of Dr. Strange inflicting his therapy methods on the gangster.

 

It didn't happen often, just enough for Ivy to develop questions about the dreams. He gave a modified version of it, not wanting to traumatize the girl with stories of Dr. Strange's torture.

 

He kept her in the dark about Jim's involvement in his time at Arkham.

 

"Nope." Ivy smacks her lips, popping the letter, shaking her head.

 

"There you have it, detective, your answer. Are you satisfied now?"

 

Jim narrows his eyes. "No. You've been quiet for months now. I don't trust it. If you're planning something, Oswald. Don't. I will find out about it."

 

Oswald can't resist the bait. A fire lights under his feet, a burning that reminds him of the man he used to be.

 

"Well." Oswald cruelly smirks, "I guess you'll have to wait and see, won't you?"

 

Oswald feels breathless, the air rushing out of his lungs as he watches the muscles in Jim's jaw dance. A quiet huff escapes the detective's lips, annoyed. His stare unwavering. There's cold fury burning in his eyes along with a hint of something else that Oswald has never been able to identify.

 

It reminds him of their old song and dance. The familiar push and pull of their relationship. Biting words and heated gazes. It's a rush, pushing Jim's buttons enough where he gets physical. Jim manhandles and Oswald schemes, but his plans never seem to affect Jim the way Jim's touch leaves Oswald's pulse racing.

 

They watch each other with bated breath, waiting for the inevitable struggle. Oswald's expecting a rough touch and he secretly hopes that Jim does it, wanting to feel Jim grip him by his thin shirt and yank him closer. Oswald wonders if he would be able to feel the heat of Jim's fist pushing against his chest, soaking through the fabric, warming his skin.

 

His eyes flutter as Jim steps closer to him, not even realizing his head slightly tilts back, unknowingly baring his throat to the detective as Jim moves forward, almost threatening, imposing.

 

The spell's ruined with Ivy coughing, clearing her throat and both men jump backward, suddenly remembering the young girl's presence.

 

Jim briefly glances over at Ivy before his gaze returns to Oswald. A warning lies in the look. An unspoken promise that Jim will come back with evidence of Oswald's wrongdoing.

 

"Good luck with your case, detective. Hope you find your culprit!"

 

The detective smirks, a soft noise escaping as he exhales through his nose before he swiftly turns, shaking his head at Oswald's insincerity.

 

Oswald watches his retreating figure until Jim completely slips out of view and wonders when Jim will make good on his promise and return.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again many thanks to my writing partner, thekeyholder, for taking the time to read and beta this fic. Your help means more than words could describe. Thank you, dear! Kinda short chapter, but nonetheless I hope you all enjoy! :)

"Guess the rumors are true." 

 

Oswald startles, causing his fingers to clench down on the pair of scissors in his hands, snipping the stem of the rose in half. 

 

He groans at the clipped rose, dropping his head and squeezing his eyes shut before looking over his shoulders and finding detective Gordon peering down at him with a curious air. 

 

Oswald has wondered when Jim would return… He just hasn't expected it to be so soon after his last visit. 

 

"And what rumors would those be?" Oswald huffs, blowing out some air as he raises to his feet. Knees aching from kneeling in front of his rose bushes for too long.

 

He knows what he must look like, but he doesn't even bother wiping the dirt off his pants; instead, he merely tucks his garden shears in the back pocket of his jeans. He cringes at the thought of once again being clothed in denim in front of the detective, an occurrence he hoped would only be a one-time thing, but here they are. 

 

"There's been a lot of chatter about you from the criminal underground." Jim's hands draw his suit jacket apart as he places his hands on his hips, each thumb resting on the top of his belt.

 

Jim continues, his voice drawing Oswald's gaze from his belt back to his face, meeting cerulean eyes. "Saying that the Penguin has given up on crime." 

 

Oswald doesn't dignify that with a response, even if it's true. 

 

"Why are you here, detective?" He avoids Jim's gaze, instead staring down at the clipped rose, holding the flower in the palm of his hand. 

 

Jim sighs. Oswald can tell Jim's annoyed at his deflection, but doesn't dwell on the subject. "I'm here to let you know you're officially no longer being considered as a suspect."

 

"Oh?" 

 

"We found the real culprit..." Jim informs, his voice is gruff and slightly peeved at having to admit he was wrong for once. "Turns out it was one of the guards at Arkham. Apparently had a personal beef with Nygma."

 

Quiet settles between them as Oswald considers this. He would've made the perfect patsy for attempted murder. He had motive and means. He's relieved that James managed to figure out the real person behind this instead of dragging Oswald in cuffs down to the station.

 

Jim clears his throat, tension lining his broad shoulders. "Nygma's alive, by the way… Thought you might want to know."

 

Oswald's face drains of any expression, completely void of any emotion. He suddenly turns towards his roses, inspecting the flowers carefully. 

 

"I don't care." 

 

Jim remains silent, seemingly having nothing to say for which Oswald's grateful. The stemless rose still sits in Oswald's palm. He's itching to pluck its petals, but refrains; instead, he faces Jim once more. "You could've saved yourself a trip, detective. Had you believed me the first time around, you wouldn't have had to return." 

 

"On behalf of the GCPD, I apologize-"

 

Jim must be in a good mood if he's dealing out apologies, something of a rarity for the detective.

 

Oswald interrupts him, even though he gets great pleasure from hearing the words 'I'm sorry' on Jim's lips. 

 

"Keep your apologies. Here-," Oswald steps forward, expecting the detective to hurry backward away from Oswald, but Jim doesn't move, tenses for a second, but relaxes when he realizes what Oswald's doing. 

 

"For ruining my rose. You can keep it." Oswald slips the flower into Jim's shirt's pocket. 

 

Jim looked amused, eyes cast down watching Oswald's hands near his breast pocket, tucking the flower into place. "I didn't ruin your flower."

 

"No? What do you call that then?" Oswald points at Jim's chest, at the beheaded flower. 

 

A smile touches Jim's lips. "I'm sorry if I startled you. Thought you heard me approaching."

 

"How'd you get in any way?" Before Jim could answer, Oswald already knew. He rolls his eyes, groaning. "Ivy." 

 

Jim nods, smiling, and for a moment Oswald's dazed at the way the corner of Jim's mouth curls upward. He's never witnessed the detective like this before. At least not with him.

 

"She let me in, said that you were back out here."  

 

"Of course she did." Oswald sighs before he pulls the shears out of his back pocket. Jim follows after him, slowly walking beside the gangster as he strolls the path along the rose bushes.

 

Jim's quiet, listening to the blades of the shears clipping the excess away from the hedges.  "So, is this what you do now?"

 

"Hm?" Oswald absently makes a sound, the only acknowledgment that he even heard Jim's query. He doesn't look up from the roses. 

 

"Tend to roses?" There's no judgment, simply curiosity lurking in Jim's tone.  "Thought that's Ivy’s sort of thing."

 

The discomfort returns. The urge to withhold his gardening hobby from the detective. Oswald thinks it stupid to pretend, given that Jim caught him red-handed, trimming the rose bushes, an unmistakable pair of garden shears in his hands.

 

There are worst things Jim could have caught him doing, Oswald supposes. 

 

But that doesn't mean Jim has to know about his garden or the plants growing in the greenhouse either.

 

Jim sighs when he realizes Oswald's not going to answer, still, he presses."What makes a criminal, the king of Gotham, and former mayor, to give it all up and turn to gardening?" 

 

_ The one that took a bullet to the gut and was dumped in the river _ , Oswald's mind supplies, but he doesn't repeat the thoughts out loud. 

 

Oswald turns towards Jim, tilting his head. "Why so many questions about gardens, detective? Thinking about growing one yourself?"

 

"Maybe. You got any advice for me?"  Oswald knows Jim's teasing him now. 

 

"If you're looking for gardening tips, you came to the wrong person. Try Ivy, detective."

 

Jim looks startled at the mere prospect of having another conversation with Ivy. Jim opens his mouth as if he's scrambling for an excuse to avoid any more encounters with the young girl. 

 

Oswald simply can't resist.  "James Gordon, Gotham's finest detective, facing down the most dangerous criminals on a daily basis, but talking to a young girl? Absolutely terrified." 

 

Soon Jim's complexion matches Oswald's roses. A rosy pink spreading across his cheeks, Oswald's left mesmerized by the sight. 

 

"No comment," Jim pleads the fifth, a well-used tactic for the GCPD when dealing with ravenous journalists at a crime scene. 

 

"Ivy's too much for you to handle, detective?" Oswald teases, tucking the pair of garden shears once more into the back pocket of his jeans as he completes the trimming of the hedges. He's expecting their simple walk along the roses to cease once they reach the end of the row of bushes. Instead, they continue to walk down the path, shifting into an impromptu stroll. 

 

Jim suddenly appears as if he regretted jostling Oswald about the garden earlier, clearly not expecting the conversation to backfire on him. Oswald's delighted at watching the detective try to squirm out of this.

 

"She's certainly..."

 

"Loquacious?" Oswald offers. 

 

Jim chuckles. "That's one word for it." Jim's shoulder knocks against his as they continue down the path together.  "Think I'll just stick with you."

 

Oswald’s breath catches hearing those words from Jim. He stares straight ahead, his heart beating so fast that he's worried it'll burst right through his chest.

 

The dirt path diverges, splitting into two: one circle back to the manor, and the other steer them past the garden and further into the surrounding woods. 

 

Jim makes the decision for them. 

 

"Wrong way, detective," Oswald calmly states. His feet remain on the path that returns to the manor. He knew where the other path leads and he isn't prepared to explain the massive greenhouse on the corner of his property. 

 

Jim pauses at that, staring down the well-trodden path. He nods towards it, "Where does it lead to?" 

 

Thankfully, Oswald's interrupted before he gets the chance to answer. 

 

"Detective Gordon! You're still here?!" Ivy's gleaming like a five-year-old on Christmas day, eyes moving back to Oswald, shooting not so inconspicuous looks at him due to Jim's lingering presence.

 

"Actually, I was just leaving," Jim states, ignoring Oswald's snort at his quick escape. 

 

He watches Jim retrace his steps, joining him once more on the right path. Oswald turns his head to the side, eyes trailing after Jim as he passes Oswald, the sunlight touches him, clings to his silhouette, imprinting a temporary shadow upon the grass. 

 

It feels like a punch when the detective twists at the waist, looking back at Oswald over his shoulder. The air rapidly leaving his lungs, flowers wildly growing in the pit of his stomach, spreading upward through his windpipe, blocking the airflow.  

 

It's the perfect backdrop. Sunshine traces along Jim's shoulders, leaving the detective in the midst of a glow. Oswald's never seen anything more beautiful. Jim's the loveliest thing there among the roses. 

 

Jim smiles, something close to an intimate secret, only shared between lovers. Jim Gordon has never looked at Oswald Cobblepot like that.

 

A simple pull at the corner on his lips, not even a complete smile, the barest hint of white teeth. It's enough to leave Oswald's knees weak, buckling and his fingers clutching at the air for something to steady him. 

 

The face that launched a thousand ships. 

 

Helen of Troy had nothing on James Gordon. One incomplete smile turned Oswald into clay, malleable to Jim's touch, whatever shape Jim wanted him to be.  

 

Time hesitates, suspends, as their gazes lift, eyes meeting. Everything blurs. Nothing but Jim standing there lines his visions, like a portrait of a man, alone, in a grassy meadow. A breathtaking painting. 

 

"Thanks for the flower, Oswald." 

 

His breath returns, a shaky exhale pushing past his lips as Jim walks away.

 

Oswald would have been suspicious, skeptical about this sudden shift in Jim's behavior, had it been anybody else. 

 

But his trust in James remains just as strong as the day at the pier, where it first bloomed into place. An intense loyalty that should worry the gangster, never diluting once despite their rocky and more than complicated past. 

 

Oswald knows that he'll never trust easily after what happened on the docks with Ed, but he knows he's safe with Jim Gordon. He always has been. 

 

"Oooh, what was that about?" Ivy asks eagerly, a bounce in her step as she moves to stand beside him. She flaps her hands, slapping his shoulder. "Oh my god, were you going to show him our greenhouse?" 

 

"What? Of course not." 

 

"Why not? He'd be super impressed." Oswald sidesteps, dodging another nudge from her elbows. But her question wasn't without merit. Oswald trusts Jim beyond a shadow of a doubt. Why keep him fenced off? 

 

Perhaps allowing Jim into his garden wouldn't be such a terrible thing after all. It wouldn't end like before, not like with Nygma.

 

"I know I've always said that plants were so much better than people, but I worry about you, Ozzie." 

 

It’s moments like these that remind Oswald just how young the girl is. She's experienced Gotham's ways, spent most of her life on the streets, struggling. Yet there was still a flame burning inside her, while most citizens lost their light years ago, living in a city that takes the way Gotham does.

 

She isn't a closed book, too expressive, too emotional to hide beneath a stoic face. She doesn't mind letting her guard down, not for the people she cares about. 

 

Oswald grasps her hand, squeezing it. "You don't have to worry about me, Ivy."

 

"I know." She squeezes back. Ivy looks unconvinced, though, a troubled smile painted on her lips. "But you don't have to be alone, Oswald."

 

"I'm not alone. I have you."

 

He doesn't even convince himself. He knows the thoughts that haunt him late at night, that lingers with him most days. The thorns of loneliness that have embedded deep into his skin, almost like vines wrapped tightly around his throat, choking him. 

 

Oswald pretends not to notice how his voice cracks. "Come on, the lilies need watering." 


	3. Chapter 3

Sunlight kisses his pale skin as Oswald sits, stretched out on a crisp white chaise lounge chair. The mesh lining of the seat slightly gives, dipping under his weight, but holds as he adjusts in the chair, shifting to grasp at the glass of sweet tea, ice cubes clinking together as he raises the glass to his lips.  Condensation races down the side of the glass, dampening his fingers after he takes a long sip and settles back into the seat, placing the drink next to him once more.

  
  
It has been Ivy's idea to sunbathe, to drag some chairs out from the patio into the backyard. It took little convincing, Oswald easily agreed the moment he stepped outside. It was simply too warm to tend to the gardens.

  
  
So there they sit, side by side, like two cats soaking up the warmth of the sun. A book cracked open, spine facing upwards, forgotten, resting on Oswald's bare chest. 

  
  
"Can you drive me to the Wayne manor later? Bruce invited me to come over and swim with him and Selina."

  
  
Oswald exhales, eyes closed behind dark shades, inhaling the rich scent of the summer air. "I can have one of the drivers take you."

  
  
It’s quiet for a second, Oswald has just been contemplating picking back up his book when Ivy continues:

  
  
"They're totally a thing now. Bruce and Selina, which I predicted was going to happen, by the way."

  
  
Oswald hums. He's not particularly interested in the love lives of adolescents. But he does remember seeing during one of his rare conversations with the young billionaire back when he was still mayor, how distracted Bruce was, too busy seeking out Selina in the crowd.

  
  
"Speaking of things… What's the story between you two?" Ivy flips over onto her side, tousled braid falling over her shoulder as she turns to face the gangster.

  
  
Oswald's sunglasses slide down the bridge of his nose as he peers over at Ivy. 

 

"Between who?" He pushes his glasses up as he turns his gaze once more on the cloudless sky. He knows exactly who she's referring to, but plays ignorant. She knows better than to ask vague questions. 

  
  
"You and your detective."

  
  
His face warms, heart doing somersaults in his chest at Ivy's wording.  "He's not  _ my  _ detective." 

  
  
"Suuuuuure," Ivy drawls. 

  
  
"What time did you say you were leaving again?" Oswald inquires, ignoring her questions.

  
  
"Soon," Ivy answers quickly. She stretches her leg out, nudging Oswald's thigh with her toe. "Tell me the history between you and detective Gordon!" 

  
  
"There is no history." 

  
  
He hopes that would be the end of that. Ivy would pick up on the hint that he didn't want to discuss Jim Gordon with her. Oswald should have known better.   


 

Oswald takes a long sip just as Ivy asks, "Is this one of those things I'm too young to hear about?"    


 

  
He chokes. Sweet tea spraying everywhere as he coughs. As soon as he regains his breath, he reiterates firmly. "There is  _ no  _ history between Jim and me!"

  
  
"So… You guys never-"

  
  
"No!" Oswald cuts her off before she has the chance to ask the whole question. Frankly, he didn't even want to know the direction she was going with it.

 

"I don't know… Seems like there's definitely something there." 

 

Oswald huffs, dejection creeping into his voice. "Well, there's nothing there, except contempt. Jim Gordon abhors me."

 

"Ab-what?" 

 

"He hates me," Oswald clarifies. Oswald doesn't know if that's the whole truth. It's too complex to boil down to one emotion. With them, it's never black and white. Their relationship has always been caught in the shades in between.

 

"Well, for someone who hates you that much, he sure does visit you often." Oswald follows her gaze pass his shoulder, turning to see what captured Ivy's attention. 

 

Lo and behold, there’s Jim Gordon strolling across the yard, heading straight towards them.

 

The summer heat seems to have affected the detective as well. Jim has ditched his suit jacket, tossed it over his arm, leaving him in a tight pale blue button-down shirt. 

 

It's not until Jim stops right in front of the chairs that Oswald remembers his own state of dress or lack of. It was a bad idea to listen to Ivy's encouragements, but it was hot and the thin shirt felt heavy on him, stifling, so he yanked it over his head and threw it over the back of the chair. He didn't expect any visitors, especially not Jim Gordon. Although, Oswald thinks that he will have to come to anticipate Jim's increasingly unannounced visits.

 

He feels vulnerable, completely naked, to be discovered by Jim in his current state. Oswald doesn't move to grab his shirt, torn between the lessons of propriety that his mother taught him and his pride. The action of covering up would be construed as weak. 

 

So Oswald stays completely still, ignores the urge to cross his arms over his chest. He's suddenly relieved with the placement of the novel resting on his chest, glad that the book is covering up his hideous scar. His mangled leg, thankfully, isn’t on display ‒ it's an injury he can't hide behind a book. He refuses to wear shorts as Ivy suggested earlier, he doesn’t care how hot it is outside. No, he’ll stick with the denim.

 

"James Gordon, as I live and breath." Oswald smiles, a little tight around the corners due to his own appearance, but overall pleased to see the detective has returned. "Three visits in a span of just a couple of weeks? I'm flattered, detective, should I get the guest room ready?" 

 

Jim huffs, a little breathy laugh escaping his nose. "That won't be necessary." 

 

"What a pity. Think I would like a domesticated James Gordon. Imagine the possibilities, Ivy." Oswald turns to the young girl. "No more struggling to reach for things on the top shelves."

 

Ivy offers, "No more lifting heavy stuff, too!" 

 

"I think you would make a nice addition here, James." Oswald's teasing, but the words come out breathy like there's a bit too much truth behind his statement. He watches Jim's reaction closely, hoping that the detective doesn't see right through him. 

 

"That so?" Jim clicks his tongue against his teeth, an amused smirk playing on his mouth. 

 

Oswald smiles slow, teeth peeking behind his lips. "We do need an extra pair of hands in the garden, what do you say, Ivy?"

 

"You could keep him in the garden. Detective Gordon could be our garden gnome since you wanted to get one, Oswald."

 

Oswald turns to the girl, jabbing the air with this index finger. "I like the way you think." 

 

"Very funny." Jim is outnumbered here. He swiftly changes the subject.  "I see you two are enjoying the weather."

 

Jim’s glance is cast downwards to Oswald's chest, slowly dragging over the naked skin before Jim meets his eyes. 

 

His face burns. Oswald hopes the light breeze will help cool down his skin, but alas he finds no relief as Jim tilts his head slightly back, lips parting, a tiny slit revealing the tip of his white teeth. A quick glimpse of pink tongue. His gaze falls once more, traveling down the length of Oswald's bare torso. 

 

"Would you like to join us?" Jim startles from Ivy's question. A light blush spreading across his face, leaving his cheeks rosy at being caught staring. 

 

"I'm sure detective Gordon has more important things to do than sunbathing." Oswald tries to interrupt, but once Ivy gets an idea she refuses to let it go.

 

"Maybe or maybe he would like to work on his tan," Ivy suggests. Oswald scoffs at Ivy's ridiculous attempt to get Jim to stay. 

 

Jim clears his throat. "I actually do need to talk to you, Oswald… alone." He throws a quick look over at Ivy before his eyes return to the gangster.

 

Oswald glances up, surprised. His heart does a skip in his chest, beating loudly like a pair of hands pounding on bongo drums. 

 

"Well," Ivy starts, smiling a bit too much at Oswald as she collects her bag. "I'll leave you two alone, then."

 

Ivy's as subtle as a brick in the face. Oswald almost expected her to start wagging her eyebrows with her suggestive tone. 

 

"Be safe!" Oswald cups his hands over each side of his mouth, calling after her retreating figure. "Don't do anything reckless!" 

 

Ivy just throws her hand in the air over her shoulder. "Love you too!"

 

Oswald rolls his eyes at her as she walks away. He’s only slightly worried. When Ivy’s with Selina and Bruce, they get into all sorts of trouble. There had been plenty of times where Oswald had to swoop in for the rescue and had to drag the young girl out of some web of trouble she managed to get wrapped up in. 

 

But if Oswald was being honest, he was glad Ivy was getting out more instead of being stuck with him all day. Even though Ivy has always said that she preferred plants to people, she was still a kid and she needed to have friends her own age. Every kid needs a friend. Oswald wants her to make the most of her youth, not let her blooming be stunted by bullies and loneliness.

 

"Sunbathing, huh?" Jim states, catching Oswald's attention once more as he takes Ivy's seat, sitting on the edge of the seat sideways, where his knees are pointed towards Oswald. "Another thing retired gangsters do in their spare time?" 

 

Oswald blushes, shaking his head. "Another one of Ivy's ideas."

 

He feels silly after saying that. It reveals too much. That he spends most of his days following the whims of a young girl.  

 

A quiet hum slips through Jim's lips. He appears deep in thought, avoiding Oswald's gaze as he struggles for words. 

 

"You two seem rather close." 

 

Oswald can't help but feel disappointment swell in his chest at Jim's cautious tone as if he’s being overly careful with his phrasing. It leaves a bitter taste. "I take it you don't approve. Let me guess, you think I'm a terrible influence on the girl."

 

"Hey." Jim reaches out, his fingertips grazing Oswald's arm.  "I didn't say that."

 

Oswald looks up, surprised at Jim's gentle tone. The last time someone looked at Oswald like there was more to him than just some criminal was his parents. He has never expected the detective to gaze upon him with such a soft, relaxed expression, his touch tender on his exposed skin. Never thought it was possible.

 

Jim grows bright red once he realizes what he just did. They both stare at Jim's hand before Jim snaps his arm back down to his side.

 

He coughs, "You… uh… seem to genuinely care about the kid. I think she's in good hands with you."

 

Oswald straightens his posture, sitting up in astonishment, momentarily forgetting about the book on his chest. The movement jostles the book, causing it to slide down Oswald's chest.  Oswald tries to cross his arms, but the damage was done. Jim's eyes are fixed on the scar. 

 

"Is that where Nygma-?" His voice drifts off, pointing his finger at Oswald's chest.

 

Oswald scrambles to his feet, hastily snatching the shirt off the back of his chair and tugging it over his head. He couldn't face Jim, his body tilted away from the detective where only his profile is visible. 

 

He gives a stilted nod. Oswald ignores the urge to itch at his aching scar. His chest feels snug, like a rubber band wrapped around his torso, squeezing until it feels like he'll snap into two. Broken. He worries what Jim must think. Afraid he'll find revulsion in the detective's eyes at the sight of his injury. The snaggle edges of his torn skin, the pinkish surface, all twisted and knotted flesh. A permanent reminder. 

 

"I'm sorry, Oswald-"

 

Oswald cuts him off quickly, "What do you need, detective?" 

 

He hears a quiet sigh, but Jim doesn't dwell on the subject, thankfully. "I was hoping I could get your help with a case I'm working on..." 

 

Jim waits for his reaction, but when Oswald doesn't respond, he continues. "And I know you're… retired from the business. But I figured you might still know a few things." 

 

That gets his attention. 

 

"Really?" Oswald finally turns to face him. "Why would you think that? Ivy wasn't joking when she called me a hermit, detective." 

 

"Maybe not, but I know you, Oswald, and going radio silent? Not a chance. Even if you're not involved anymore, you'd still want to hear the ongoings of Gotham. You care too much about the city to not keep updated."

 

It hits him that Jim Gordon is the only person who knows Oswald inside and out, knows him better than anyone else. There are sides to himself that he keeps hidden, his criminal side from his mother when she was still alive, his more vulnerable side from his enemies, but Jim Gordon has seen them all. Every bit of Oswald. 

 

Jim was right, of course; Oswald still keeps his ears open to the rumblings of Gotham's criminal underbelly. It's still active, didn't cease to exist once Oswald left the game. Oswald has no desire to remain in the dark, even if he has nothing to do with that life anymore. 

 

"I might know a few things." Oswald warns Jim, "Information comes at a price, James. I won't go sticking my neck out, not to just get it chopped. It will raise questions if I go prying into people's business. They won't go after me to hurt me... I cannot risk Ivy's safety."

 

Jim nods. "I understand.”

 

"Good." He almost wants to stick out his hand for them to shake on it, as if they're making a deal, just like in the old times. 

 

But everything has shifted between them. Oswald's no longer the ambitious person he once was. Having Jim Gordon indebted to him doesn't sound as appealing as it once did. Oswald knew Jim always hated it, always hated being bound to Oswald. Oswald would help out, anything Jim had asked for, but afterward locked a chain around Jim's wrist, imprisoning him until he paid, until they were even. 

 

He didn't expect a favor out of this, doesn't even think about it until Jim brings it up.

 

Oswald beckons with a motion of his hand. "Come, we can discuss this in my office-"

 

"Wait..." Jim steps in front of the gangster, holding out his palm to stop him from walking. Oswald briefly glances down at the hand in front of his chest, inches away, aligning perfectly with where his scar lies. 

 

"What will I owe you in return?" 

 

Oswald just blankly stares at him, long enough for Jim's expression to change, to soften, for him to tilt his head as he realizes the gangster was completely caught off guard by Jim's question. 

 

Before, he'd ask for something Jim could do for him that would help him prosper as King of Gotham, but he's lost that throne a long time ago. Oswald struggles to think of a favor. He almost gives up, almost waves it off and tells Jim that it isn't necessary, but then he notices the wooden fence and what grows behind it over Jim's shoulder. 

 

Oswald breaks into a smile. "As a matter of fact, there is something you could do." 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> many thanks to my partner in writing thekeyholder for the beta and all the help with this story and dealing with me being insufferable and complaining about it.

"So  _ this  _ is really the favor you're asking from me?" A look of disbelief and amusement passes over Jim's face.

 

Jim didn't say a word when Oswald grabbed his hand, a bold move on his behalf, Oswald fully expecting the detective to yank his hand away, but he didn't. Merely, Jim accepted Oswald's hand, fingers curling around his easily. Oswald tried to fight off the blush, leading the detective towards the wooden enclosure. 

 

He had let go once they reached the gate. 

 

"You know… This wasn't exactly what I had in mind." Jim crosses his arms. Oswald distractedly stares at the tan muscles, how the action seems to accentuate his biceps as he folds them over his chest.

 

Jim ditched his button-down, now only in the white undershirt, an old pale coral apron they found in the kitchen hastily tied around his neck and waist to keep him from getting too dirty. 

 

Oswald doesn't feel so exposed now. They're on even playing grounds. But Oswald's arms aren't much to look at compared to Jim's defined ones. Jim should look ridiculous in a too tiny apron but of course, he looks like some model in those gardening magazine Ivy buys.

 

"I'm retired, Jim." Oswald reminds him as he grabs an extra pair of gloves for the detective. He limps forward, holding them out for Jim to take. "I can't send you to shake down some misbehaving low-level gangsters when I don't have any." 

 

Jim accepts the gloves, sliding them on. "I'm just surprised, that's all. Seems like you keep this garden of yours under lock and key. Didn't expect you to let me inside here. Let alone work in it." 

 

"First off, it's Ivy's garden just as much as it's mine which is why you won't be touching anything unless I explicitly tell you to."

 

"What? Don't you trust me?"

 

Oswald pats Jim's bare shoulder. The man's like a furnace, heat radiating off his skin. Oswald’s almost convinced there’s a sun burning inside of him, that light, that goodness that shines from Jim. One look at Jim is like staring into the sun.

 

"Don't take any offense, Jim, Ivy wouldn't let me either when I first started," Oswald admits. Ivy taught him everything he knew about gardening. 

 

Even if Ivy would be ecstatic with their current situation, no doubt squealing and painfully slapping Oswald’s arm, she'd murder Oswald for letting ‘just anyone’ into their garden and ruining it. Showing the garden off is one thing, but to actually have Jim partake in the care of it, someone who had no gardening experience whatsoever, Ivy would be furious. 

 

"Now." Oswald pushes a basket into Jim's hands. "Don't touch anything other than what I pass to you. Understand?" 

 

He turns away, knowing full well that Jim won't listen to him, probably thumbing the leaves of one of the plants as they walk towards the vegetable patch. 

 

"I didn't realize you grew other stuff, I thought it was just flowers," Jim comments. 

 

"You sound surprised, Jim." Oswald laughs, pushing apart the plants, searching for ripe cucumbers to pluck. His words come out more bitter than he intends. "I was too. This is the only good thing that came from my hands. I used to think I was a builder, you know, building Gotham up to her glory again, but I only poisoned the waters."

 

Oswald realizes he's revealing too much, but once he starts, words begin to pour out of him. "At the end of the day, I didn't make a difference. I was just another criminal polluting Gotham's streets." 

 

"But this..." Oswald turns holding a vegetable up, the sun shining down on the side of the thick, green cucumber.  "This is something to be proud about. My only accomplishment." 

 

He dumps the cucumber into the basket, not meeting Jim's eyes. He's embarrassed at himself. Jim takes one step inside his garden and the walls he built come tumbling down. Oswald's emotions and the secrets he held already spilling over and flooding the garden, pooling around Jim's feet.

 

"That's not true." 

 

Jim's voice causes him to pause, his body half turned towards the plants. He looks back at Jim with wide eyes.

 

He's expecting to find regret on the detective's face, but it's nowhere in sight. 

 

"I don't agree with your methods," Jim reminds Oswald. 

 

Oswald doesn't want to hear it. The same argument they've fought throughout the years. He's too tired.

 

"Yes, you've made yourself quite clear on that, Jim." Oswald rolls his eyes as he turns away once more, blowing out an indignant huff through his nose.

 

"I've never agreed with your methods-" Jim repeats, but Oswald stops him.

 

"Is this your attempt at comforting, detective? I would advise a different strategy, because this-," Oswald gestures with a cucumber. "Whatever it is, isn't effective." 

 

Jim snatches the cucumber that had been waving in his face, before depositing in the basket he's holding. 

 

"Listen to me, Oswald." 

 

His tone is what stops Oswald from moving deeper into the garden, hoping the plants could swallow him whole, hiding him, offering a chance to escape this conversation. 

 

He's not expecting a pep talk, especially not from Jim Gordon of all the people. 

 

"I don't agree with your methods, but… You did things for this city. When you were mayor, crime in Gotham was at a new record low, something I can't even claim the GCPD has accomplished." 

 

Sincerity burns in Jim's gaze and the vines so tightly wrapped around Oswald, the thorns embedded in his skin that remind him of his isolation loosen. It's enough. Enough for his lungs to fully expand without the sharp pierce of the thorns digging in.

 

It's a ludicrous notion. Both of them standing there, surrounded by flowers and plants. A former gangster receiving encouragement from Gotham's finest detective, wearing a small pink apron and carrying a basket of cucumbers. He should look ridiculous.

 

Instead, Jim Gordon looks handsome. 

 

Droplets of sweat cling to his forehead from the summer heat, causing his golden hair to stick, one strand out of place, escaping from the binds and tumbling forward. Blue eyes glistening like sunshine hitting the sea. 

 

Oswald would laugh if his chest didn't ache so much. 

 

"That must have been rather painful to admit. I'm proud of you, James," Oswald teases.  

 

A slow grin appears at the corners of Jim's mouth that punches the air from Oswald's lungs.

 

"It was." 

 

Allowing Jim inside his garden might be a mistake. Something he'll regret. His feet are planted on land, surrounded by soil, yet it feels as if he's in the middle of the ocean. Jim brings a rainstorm in his path, downpouring and maybe Oswald will drown. 

 

But it's been too long. His leaves have dried up; a flower cannot survive in a lonely desert. Try as he might, a cactus he is not, even though his skin's aligned with spikes piercing outward from his flesh. His petals are left torn from betrayal. 

 

A little rain might be a good thing.

 

Oswald becomes accustomed to the rainfall; on certain days it pours, others are dry, not a single drop. Those days are the longest. Those days Jim doesn't visit weighs on Oswald's mind. Always worry that the rain clouds will completely disappear. Every visit could be his last. 

 

But Jim always returns once his case is solved. Oswald never knows if the information he provides is helpful, Jim never says and Oswald doesn't ask. He has an inkling it does, though. since the detective keeps coming back with more questions for cases.

 

Oswald pretends it's more out of choice than paying off a debt. It's easier to forget, with the way Jim laughs working in the garden with Oswald. It’s a rare captivating sight, seeing Jim smile so often. In all the times he's known James, Oswald has never witnessed the detective so at ease.

 

Starting a garden had slowly started to sew Oswald back together, his veins are vines carrying flowers to his heart. Leaves as bandages, patching him up together again, covering the missing spots in his body.

 

He wonders if Jim finds the same comfort in his garden. Thoughts crop up, ones that question the reasoning of Jim's lingering presence. 

 

Dandelions lie at his fingertips, Oswald blows, his finger resting against his lips. He wishes that he wasn't alone, that Jim wanted to be around him, that he simply enjoyed Oswald's company. 

 

Hope is a dangerous thing, it grows like wildflowers. Just one little seed and it’s popping up everywhere, spreading uncontrollably. 

 

Oswald knows of its wrath. What hope leads to, he has been on the other side of a gun from it. It's deadlier than wildflowers. 

 

It's wildfire. Burning everything it touches. Destroying. 

 

Oswald doesn't want his garden covered in ash, smothering any life. 

 

He ignores the butterflies swirling in his stomach each times Jim arrives at the manor, trading his badge for a spade. The gleaming white smile he receives when Oswald answers the same question every time Jim visits.

 

"What's on the agenda for today? Or am I still holding baskets?" 

 

Oswald always tells him to be patient. He tries to teach Jim something new each time he comes. Something Ivy taught him or something his mother mentioned in his youth about growing flowers.

 

He hates how Jim fully pays attention as if he truly cares what Oswald's saying, hanging onto Oswald's every word. The unwavering attention leaves him flustered. 

 

Soon Jim starts doing more than holding baskets for Oswald. He's tasked with watering the garden, the rose bushes and the flowers surrounding the manor. 

 

"Just a moderate amount," Oswald warns him. "Don't you dare drown my flowers, Jim Gordon!" 

 

Oswald should worry about the shape of his flowers when he receives a wide grin for an answer. Instead, he frets over the situation he's in. Jim Gordon with a hose in one hand, his shades on and a white polo shirt that's becoming wet. 

 

He's doomed when the shirt starts sticking to the detective's golden skin, defined muscles peeking through. Oswald has to excuse himself, practically running into the fence as he cowardly flees.

 

Jim does prove useful, though. There's never a task too beneath him, always willing to help even when Oswald doesn't ask for it. Jim steps in with a "here, let me get that", whether it's carrying heavy bags of fertilizer, maneuvering wheelbarrows, or putting away the garden tools in the shed. 

 

They have always made a good team. Even before the garden and the flowers. Oswald never expects this, though. Never dreamed the day where Jim's hands join him, buried in the swallow earth's soil, planting seeds together. 

 

Oswald should've realized by now not to attempt to predict Jim Gordon. 

 

"I… uh… got you something." 

 

Oswald doesn't expect the abashed smile, and Jim ducks his head, not meeting Oswald's eyes as he holds out his palm. 

 

"What's this?" Oswald tilts his head, fingers grazing Jim's skin as he collects the gift from Jim's hand.

 

It's a packet of seeds. 

 

Lilies. His mother's favorite flower. Something he mentioned in passing to Jim several weeks ago. 

 

Jim rubs at his reddening neck. "I know you already have lilies growing in the back, but I thought..."

 

Oswald knows better than to rush Jim. So he patiently waits until the detective's ready. 

 

"Well, I thought maybe you could place them on your mother's grave after they grow." 

 

Oswald swallows painfully around the lump that forms in his throat. He blinks back tears, caught so off guard by Jim's thoughtfulness that his eyes embarrassingly water.

 

Jim's watching him with concern, waiting for a reaction. Oswald knows he needs to speak, to say something to assure Jim that he's not rejecting the gift. But words fail him. 

 

Overcome with emotion, Oswald closes the distance between the two, lunging at the detective. His arms curls around Jim's neck as he buries his face into Jim's shoulder. 

 

He can sense Jim's hesitation. The way Jim has thrown his arms up, now frozen in the air like he's unsure what to do with them. Tension lining the length of his body, causing him to grow stiff, but Jim quickly relaxes as his arms drop, wrapping them around Oswald's waist. 

 

The pressure of Jim's hands steadies him, rubbing up and down Oswald's back. 

 

Oswald breathes in Jim's scent deeply, nose brushing against his neck, feeling the warmth emitting from Jim's skin. The heat radiates from Jim as if Oswald's standing next to the sun. A faint trace of smoke clings to him, a familiar scent from being in the city, along with the fragrance of cinnamon lurking.

 

Oswald knows it'll be a scent he won't forget. One he'll begin to crave.

 

He clears his throat as he pulls away, noticing Jim's flushed face. Oswald's mortified at his own behavior. Reacting so strongly to a simple gift. Jim's probably embarrassed for him.

 

Suddenly he has an idea. "How about we plant them together?" 

 

"Together?" Jim glances up, eyes wide, surprised at the suggestion. 

 

Oswald nods. 

 

"You mean you're actually gonna let me plant something in the garden?" Jim raises his brow, a slow smile stretching across his lips.

 

"You seem to have proved yourself useful around the garden. I think you might even have potential, James." 

 

"Potential, huh? I'm flattered, Oswald." 

 

Oswald rolls his eyes at Jim, pretending to be exasperated, but his heart's fluttering over the way his name fall from Jim's lips. The wind carrying the sound over to his ears, causing a whirlwind of butterflies to swirl in his stomach.

 

He beckons Jim over to the garden. With some careful consideration, they find the perfect place to plant the seeds, right in view outside Oswald's office's window. They kneel together in the dirt. A flash of concern passes over Jim's face when Oswald grimaces at the twinge of pain running up his leg, but he ignores it. 

 

Oswald plants the first seed, digging into the earth with a trowel, demonstrates how deep and far apart the seeds should be.

 

"Show me." Oswald points next to his plot, handing over the shovel to Jim. 

 

There's only a second's hesitation before Jim nods, grabbing the handle of the trowel. Oswald watches him, eyes trailing down Jim's face, his scrunched up forehead to the pink tongue poking out from his mouth in concentration as Jim digs.

 

He waits before dropping the seed into the hole, looking over to Oswald for approval. 

 

"Nicely done, Jim. Now, make sure you completely cover it up, like this." Oswald leans over, cupping Jim's hands. Together, their hands slide over the earth's soil, filling the hole Jim made with dirt. 

 

Oswald notices Jim's skin suddenly flushed when he pulls back. 

 

It's quiet. A comfortable silence falls around them as they continue to drop the seeds into the earth. Dirt clinging to their gloves as the work. It takes most of the afternoon, planting seed after seed from the packet down the line, but Jim doesn't complain once. In fact, Jim's smiling once they reach the bottom of the packet, no more seeds to plant. 

 

Jim sits back on his haunches momentarily before he leans back, resting against the fence, bringing his knees to his chest. He wipes the sweat from his forehead with his forearm. 

 

Oswald remains kneeling just for a moment, bracing himself for the flare of pain that will race up his leg the second he moves. The ache that always remains. He grimaces, biting down on his bottom lip to stifle the whimper escaping from the back of his throat, as he straightens his legs, his shoulders slamming against the fence as he falls back into it.

 

His hand shoots out, clutching his thigh. The ache balloons, twisting into sharp agony, his knee jarred from the movement.

 

Oswald’s breathing grows heavier, panting out brief puffs of air through his mouth as he squeezes his eyes shut, attempting to ignore the pain. It's overwhelming, echoing down his leg in waves. 

 

The pain's deafening, Oswald doesn't even hear Jim calling his name.

 

"-wald?" 

 

Oswald opens his eyes, blinking back tears as they form. Jim's shadows fall over him as he kneels in front of Oswald, blocking out the sun. 

 

"I'm fine." Oswald tries, but it's obvious he's in pain. The words barely manage to slip through his gritted teeth. 

 

Jim pauses for a moment. "Is it your leg?" 

 

Too embarrassed for words, Oswald merely nods, unable to look at the detective. 

 

"Can I?" His hand hovers above Oswald's leg, waiting for his permission. 

 

Oswald snaps his head up at the unexpected question. With anyone else, Oswald would assume it was a way to mock his injury, to gather ammunition for a cruel joke, but Jim's staring at him with an expression so earnest that it makes his breath hitch. 

 

Before he even realizes, he's nodding once again. 

 

Jim ducks his head, lips parting as his hand descends, the pads of his fingertips grazing the rough denim fabric. Jim suddenly sits back down, this time in front of Oswald instead of beside him.

 

Oswald can only watch him with wide eyes as Jim pulls his ankle into his lap, fingers running up and down Oswald's calf in slow, circular motions. Jim's thumbs dig into each side of his leg. A constant pressure that drives the ache away, alleviating it bit by bit. His words are lost, his green eyes stuck on the detective, staring at him in reverence.

 

He has never been touched quite like this, other than his mother's comforting caresses to his cheek. Even then, his mother never touched his scarred leg. Oswald would never let her. Having his mother's hand on him, trying to soothe the pain for an injury gained from a bad decision made him disgusted with himself. He was afraid of letting her too close, that her hands would resurface from his leg soaked with depravity. That his crimes would transfer onto her skin. Something that she wouldn't be able to scrub off.

 

But Jim Gordon knows who he's looking at. His reflections aren't shattered into several pieces. None of them hidden from the detective. He fully understands the man in front of him. Jim sees him uncovered, sees him for truly who he is. 

 

"I think I'm starting to understand why you do this." Jim's words grab Oswald's attention, drags him away from his thoughts.

 

"Oh, why do I do it then?" He asks, genuinely curious to hear Jim's response.

 

Jim tiredly smiles, but something lurks in his eyes. Oswald recognizes it easily, it's a kind of hurt that never seems to fully disappear. It's persistent, festering more and more each day until there are patches of him gone. Empty spaces where the person he used to be is. Jim must be haunted by things in his past too. 

 

"You're right. This is something to be proud of," Jim absently repeats Oswald's earlier words, gesturing to the garden. "Something you know you can be proud of. There's no shame, only growth here." 

 

Jim stares down at his lap, still rubbing Oswald's ankle. 

 

"This city," Jim starts then stops, hand momentarily stilling as he loses himself to his own thoughts. Something is weighing on the detective's mind.  He sighs before his hand returns to moving up and down Oswald's leg once more. "Sometimes it's like fighting a never winning battle. You try to fight it. The corruption. The ruin. But it's in the foundation, in the roots. So in the end, you compromise, hope that you're doing the right thing. Making the right choice." 

 

"The things I've done. The mistakes I made… I thought I was protecting this city. Saving it. But lately, it just feels like I'm doing the opposite. I'm part of the problem." 

 

Jim abruptly goes silent. Oswald knows that he's not done. So he waits quietly. There's nothing he could say that would chase Jim's demons away. But Jim doesn't have to be alone.

 

Torn between hesitation and sympathy, Oswald struggles what to do. The latter wins out as he leans forward, grabbing Jim's hand, giving it a quick squeeze. 

 

Jim lets out a shaky exhale, squeezing Oswald's hand back.

 

"I've destroyed so many lives because I was convinced I was doing the right thing. It's a relief… knowing that there's something I can touch without damaging."

 

It is as if someone recorded his own thoughts and the cassette was being played back to him. He remembers his own fears, his own surprise at being able to create something with his own two hands that didn't result in ruin. 

 

Oswald has never felt closer to a human being than in that moment. It's awkward. Oswald's leg is still stretched out, resting in Jim's lap, yet they don't shift, not even an inch. Oswald doesn't let go of Jim's hands and neither does Jim. 

 

There they are sitting in the dirt, battling revenants of their past mistakes. Kindred spirits discovering solace among the flowers and the bugs hiding underneath the leaves.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, I was gonna try to get chapter six done before posting this chapter but I'm currently stuck with the chapter so I figured I might as well post this chapter! Hope you all enjoy!!! 
> 
>  
> 
> Many thanks to the wonderful thekeyholder for not only betaing this story but for dealing with my many complaints and freakouts writing this fic!

Jim Gordon arrived like a strong gust of wind blowing through the manor. It has been a welcoming breeze, providing momentarily relief from the humid temperatures outside. Oswald abandoned all attempts to work in the yard. It was moot. The heat drained him, foiling any endeavor to focus on his tasks at hand. Too busy swiping at the sweat gathering on his forehead or pulling at the shirt sticking to his back. He simply puts away his gardening tools and changes into a clean shirt and is now hiding out in his office, opening all the windows.

 

There's an air of frenzied energy circling the detective as he barges into Oswald's office. Neither one speaks a word, just exchange equally bewildered looks.

 

“Hello, James, nice to see you,” Oswald greets, eyebrow twitching in amusement, straightening his posture. He removes his legs that have been draped on his desk, planting them back onto the floor. 

 

“Sorry.” Jim blushes, seemingly out of breath as if he’s been running. “Your maid let me in. Hope that’s alright.” 

 

Of course it was. Jim would never hear any complaints from Oswald about his presence. He’s simply surprised at seeing Jim at all, as it’s rare for the detective to arrive while working. Oswald can only conclude he’s having trouble with a case.

 

He didn't even sit down despite Oswald's offer. Jim doesn't hear Oswald, attention completely elsewhere.

 

“Where’s Ivy? I didn’t see her,” Jim absently notes, although he appears to just be making small talk. 

 

“She’s out,” Oswald informs him, purposely being vague. Ivy has spent the morning tending to the plants in the greenhouse; despite the blistering heat, the girl remains unaffected by it. 

 

Jim nods, distractedly. Oswald watches as Jim paces back and forth. A blur of navy blue right out of the corner of his eye. Sunlight hitting the golden badge resting on Jim's hip each time he passes by the open window.

 

A light breeze carries Jim's cologne over, filling Oswald's nostrils with that familiar scent he's grown to love. Cinnamon. 

 

He avoids shutting his eyes and inhaling the aroma, not wanting the detective to catch him, so he distracts himself with the task of watering the plants surrounding his desk. 

 

“What’s on your mind, Jim?” Oswald raises his eyebrow at Jim's feet, eyeing the rug lining his office's floor. If Jim continues, Oswald worries he's going to have to replace the rug from being worn down by Jim's shoes.

 

"This case I’m working. I think I'm missing something. Harvey says it's nothing, tells me I'm just stirring up trouble. You think that's what I'm doing?"

 

Oswald hums absently, glancing up briefly over at Jim before focusing once more on the watering-pot in his hands. He dips the can, pouring water over the potted plant sitting on his desk.

 

"Stirring up trouble is more my forte, wouldn't you say?" Oswald doesn't pause, not waiting to hear Jim's response before he continues. "You being smack dab in the middle of trouble, though? Yes. It sounds exactly like you."

 

Jim grins at him momentarily before apprehension settles once more. "There's something I'm not seeing."

 

Oswald sighs, laying down the watering pot on his desk. He moves in front of Jim's path, holding up his hands to grip the detective's arms. 

 

"James," Oswald whispers. “Tell me about the case. How can I help?” 

 

“You can’t.” 

 

Oswald drops his hands from Jim’s arms as if his words burnt him.

 

A flood of panic washes over him at hearing Jim’s certainty. If Jim doesn’t believe Oswald can help him anymore, then these visits will cease. If Oswald can't provide information, there's no reason for Jim to continue visiting.

 

The vines tighten, curling around his body like vices, wrapping around his throat, cutting off his airflow. It hurts. Oswald expected this to happen, knew that Jim would leave eventually, but this soon? Just when he thought that Jim actually appears to enjoy his company. His chest throbs, his heart bleeding where the thorns pierce through the layer of muscle. 

 

Oswald's hands press against his scar as if the bullet is splitting him open again. Grief creeps in. Oswald doesn't want to lose Jim too.

 

He tries not to be swallowed completely, but it's as if he's staggering against a strong current, trying to not slip back into solitude's grasp.

 

"I-I'm sure I might be able to help somehow-" 

 

"It's not that." Jim shakes his head, not meeting Oswald's eyes when he admits, "I'm not here for information." 

 

A blush forms on the detective’s cheeks, knocking the air from Oswald’s lungs. Jim continues, fumbling with his words. “I just… I just need someone’s opinion, who  _ isn't  _ Harvey, on what I should do. Someone who'll listen. You’re the only person who will.”

 

_ Oh _ . 

 

"I see," Oswald quietly states. The thorns retract, his heart starts beating regularly without a subsequent ache.

 

"I don't know what to do, Oswald." Jim runs his fingers through his hair, growing more frustrated. For a second, Oswald's entranced, wonders how soft Jim's locks would feel against his fingers.

 

Instead, Oswald steps forward, reaching for Jim's hand and squeezing it. 

 

"Jim, you're a fine detective. The best, actually," Oswald adds, earning another blush from Jim. He tries not to get distracted by it as he continues, "If you think you're missing something, then trust your instincts. Do what your gut is telling you, even if Captain Bullock disagrees." 

 

Oswald hates seeing Jim like this, torn about his case. He never got a glimpse of this side of James Gordon before. Never got to witness how a case affects the detective once he leaves the manor. 

 

He wants to cheer Jim up, to see a smile grace his features instead of a grimace. "However… if you're just seeking permission for doing something reckless, James Gordon, I won't stand for it." 

 

His scolding loses effect as he's forced to stare upwards at the detective, given their height difference, but he's willing to put aside his pride in order to see Jim smiling again. 

 

"Oh, is that so?" Jim lifts an eyebrow, grinning. Their hands are still entwined, neither one had let go yet. 

 

"Mhmm." Oswald nods. "While you make a fine detective, James, you're a great gardener as well. I would just hate to lose my helper and finding a replacement would simply be too tedious." 

 

“We can’t have that.” Jim laughs. His thumb absently strokes the back of Oswald's hand, causing Oswald's breath to catch. He doesn't think Jim’s even aware of what he's doing. 

 

"Precisely, so please refrain from doing anything too reckless. Otherwise, I'll have to find someone else to help in the garden."

 

"I'll try," Jim promises, smiling down at him. “Speaking of, how are our flowers doing?” 

 

Oswald tries not to visibly react to hearing Jim refer to the lilies they planted as theirs, even though his knees go weak at the thought. 

 

“Take a look for yourself.” He leads Jim over to the open window, still holding his hand. 

 

Much to Oswald’s surprise, Jim still doesn’t let go once they reach the window; instead, he lifts their hands up together to rest on the windowsill. Oswald can’t tear his eyes away as sunlight slides across their hands, slowly lighting up their skin, warmth spreading from his fingertips up his arm, unfurling through his body. 

 

Oswald’s gaze sharply shifts to Jim when he hears a soft noise escaping his lips. He’s mesmerized by the sight. The corner of his mouth is upturned, a slow smile forming. His blue eyes glisten as he peers out the window. “Now I understand why you were so adamant about the placement of the lilies. You have the perfect view of them here.” 

 

He doesn’t respond. Tongue too heavy to form words. He’s entirely lost, heart beating madly in his chest as he stares hopelessly at the detective. His eyes trace Jim’s profile, daylight touching him and Jim shines under it as if sunlight runs through his veins. Oswald has stayed in the shadows for most of his life, thrived under the moonlight, but the tides turned against him, cast him into the ocean, bleeding and dying. 

 

Oswald soaks up the warmth of Jim’s radiance. The detective’s touch burns through him, chasing away the darkness still lingering within him.   

 

“I can’t tell.” Jim squints. “Are they doing well?” 

 

“Yes.” It was too early for the petals to form, but the seeds were starting to bud. Soon they’ll continue to sprout and thrive, Oswald is certain of it. 

 

Hearing this, Jim faces Oswald, smiling proudly at the former gangster and Oswald’s heart swells in his chest, thumping loudly in his ears.

 

There's a loud bang as the office door swings open, hitting the wall with enough force to bounce back. Oswald scolded Ivy several times for doing this. 

 

_ "Careful, Ivy! You little devil, have you no manners? First, you don't knock. Secondly, you try to kick the door off its hinges. You're going to destroy the wall one of these days!"  _

 

_ "No, I won't!" She cheerfully disagreed and just like that, the argument was over.  _

 

"Oswald, everything in the green-oh Detective Gordon, I didn't know you were here!" Ivy's already nudging the door open with her foot since her hands are full, carrying a box filled with plants.   

 

She's beaming, throwing looks back and forth between Jim and Oswald, whose hands are still intertwined. Oswald hurriedly steps away, dropping his hand back down to his side. He shivers despite today’s warm weather as Jim’s fingertips brush against Oswald’s palm as he pulls away.

 

“Ivy… What have we discussed about knocking?” 

 

The redhead groans, entering the room and laying the box down on Oswald’s desk. “But Ozzie, my hands were full, how was I supposed to knock?!”

 

“If your hands were occupied, a simple calling out would have sufficed,” Oswald chides, but there is no real heat behind the words. He circles his desk, peering down into the box. “Oh, the tomatoes took!” 

 

Jim steps forward, joining Oswald by his side, tapping his fingers on the edge of Oswald’s desk. “I didn’t know we had tomatoes in the garden…”

 

Ivy’s face lights up, she sharply looks at Oswald, mouthing the words, “ _ We _ ?” Thankfully, the detective’s attention is elsewhere, his hand grazing Oswald’s as he reaches down into the box, knuckles brushing together as he lifts a tomato up to examine.

 

Before Oswald could think up an excuse, Ivy interrupts, flipping her red hair over her shoulder and grinning. "So remember how you said this morning if I finish all the gardening duties we could go to the beach?"

 

Oswald throws a panicked glance over at the detective, who's still eyeing the box full of plants, returning the tomato back to its place. He has a niggling suspicion that Jim's pretending to ignore their conversation.

 

"I didn't exactly say that. I  _ said  _ I'd consider it."

 

"Which means that's a no." Ivy pouts. "C'mon, Ozzie, it could be really fun! I know you have that thing with water, but-"

 

"Thing?" Jim pipes up. Of course, this is when Jim would focus on the conversation.

 

"Yeah, he has like a water phobia or something."

 

Jim raises his eyebrows at Oswald. 

 

"Forgive me if I'm not particularly fond of water after what happened the last time." 

 

That catches Jim's attention. "Last time? What happened last time?" 

 

"The shooting," Ivy supplies. "That guy Oswald was hung up on shot him and dumped him into the harbor." 

 

Heat rushes up Oswald's neck at Ivy's words. It hadn't been broadcasted news, Oswald's feelings for the former forensic technician. Ed, thankfully, never revealed it to anyone during his days gallivanting around Gotham, terrorizing people with his stupid riddles. 

 

By the expression on Jim's face, he hadn't known either. The shock fades and Jim's expression softens as he stares at him. Oswald has to look away, embarrassed.

 

Oswald's face grows even brighter as Ivy continues, "Which I totally get. If the guy I was in love with tried to kill me and I almost drowned, I would be scared of going back in too." 

 

He has a feeling that Ivy's referring to something else now when she makes direct eye contact with Oswald after glancing at Jim as if there's a double meaning beneath her words.

 

"Besides, Detective Gordon could come and protect us. Nobody would hurt us if he's there!"

 

Suddenly, images of Jim at the beach flash through Oswald's mind. Tan, smooth skin, red beach shorts riding low on his hips, sand dusting over his toned calves. Wind blowing his golden hair out of place, eyes glistening in the sunlight. He could picture it easily, shuts his eyes and the vision unfolds as if he's right there on the shore, listening to seagulls squawking, the hum from the ocean, and Jim laughing as he chases Oswald and Ivy into the water, kicking sand everywhere. 

 

He wants it so desperately, to spend a day just with Ivy and his detective, splashing in the water, not having a single care in the world. Ivy would eventually grow bored and return to shore, leaving Oswald and Jim alone in the water. Jim would carry him despite Oswald protesting, albeit weakly, sneakily enjoying being in Jim's arms. They would stay until sunset, watch the colors melt together in the sky. Shy smiles at one another as their fingers brush before weaving together as they head home. 

 

Oswald clears his throat, avoiding eye contact with Jim, even though he can feel the detective’s gaze, watching him. 

 

"I'm afraid Jim has better things to do than be our bodyguards, Ivy. He's working on an important case and doesn't need any distractions from us." 

 

"Maybe next time." Jim sounds genuinely disappointed not to be able to join their outing, much to Oswald's surprise. "Speaking of, I should get going."

 

Oswald should be used to hearing those words, but every time Jim leaves his chest aches. 

 

"Good luck, Jim, with your case."

 

Jim stops in front of Oswald. Words so soft that Oswald could barely hear him. "Thank you, Oswald, for the advice earlier.

 

"But you should go to the beach with Ivy." Jim drops his hand onto Oswald's shoulder, lightly squeezing. "Go have fun, Oswald." 

 

Oswald nods wordlessly as Jim smiles, watching his retreating figure disappearing out of view.

 

"Does that mean we can go?" Ivy's hands clasp together, bouncing side to side, from one foot to the other. 

 

"Yes, I suppose we could." Oswald rolls his eyes, but can't fight the smile at her enthusiasm. "But I'm not swimming."

 

Ivy doesn't seem to care, jumping up and down before throwing her arms around Oswald in a tight embrace. 

 

" _ Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! _ " Ivy sings and Oswald laughs, patting her back with a hand. 

 

The beach, as it turns out, hasn't been a completely terrible idea. Sure, Oswald's chest constricts painfully every time Ivy runs into the water and disappears below the surface briefly before popping back up. He swears he has developed an ulcer from the excursion and ends up with a wicked sunburn, but Oswald doesn’t regret going.

 

It has been… surprisingly pleasant. 

 

He wears layers despite Ivy's protest. White shirt, denim jeans, a pair of shades and a floppy hat he stole from Ivy, hoping that no one will recognize him. It turns out that no one goes to the beach on Monday afternoons, so he ditches the hat; well, Ivy snatches it off his head as soon as they realize the beach is mostly empty, nothing in sight other than miles of sand and water. 

 

There is a sort of tranquility here. Oswald can see the appeal. It was a nice change of scenery, breathing the ocean air, the salt that lingers within it. Getting out of the house was a good decision for both of them. He feels light like his bones weigh nothing and for that moment everything vanished. All his grief, loss, suffering didn't exist. He's almost tempted to take a glimpse at his stomach to see if his scar is gone too. 

 

But even with the light breeze ruffling his hair and the warmth emitting from the sand, and listening to sounds of Ivy's laughter, something is missing.

 

He realizes that it's the detective's presence he's yearning for. 

 

"Whatcha thinking about?" Ivy startles Oswald from his thoughts, flopping down beside him in the sand.

 

Before Oswald even has a chance to speak, Ivy's already answering her own question. 

 

"OH, I know, you're thinking about Detective Gordon."

 

Oswald splutters, "I am  _ not _ !"

 

"Yes, you are, you got that funny look on your face." Ivy pokes him on the forehead. "Always get it after he visits like you're missing him already."

 

Oswald has clearly underestimated Ivy's observation skills. She's right, though. He does miss the detective every time he leaves. Always has. Even before this, back in the beginning, whenever Jim would stop by for a favor at the club, a familiar ache pained him every time Jim left.

 

It's different now that they are friends. 

 

Before, Oswald wasn’t aware of what life is like being friends with Jim Gordon. He had no idea the way Jim's mouth curves into a smile, how those blue eyes crinkle when he grins. The sounds of his laughter. He didn't know of the childhood stories they’ve traded, passed between the two under the sun and above the soil. 

 

"You really like him, huh?" Ivy's face softens as she asks. 

 

Oswald just nods. 

 

"So you're gonna ask him out, right?" 

 

Oswald clears his throat. "What?" 

 

"C'mon, Ozzie." Ivy flicks sand at him. "I know you're not blind." 

 

"I will be if you keep throwing sand in my eyes." Oswald shifts, quickly dodging the sand. 

 

Ivy pays no attention to the comment, instead, she's staring at him expectantly, waiting.

 

He sighs. "What are you talking about?" 

 

"Detective Gordon is totally into you." 

 

"Ivy, I'm afraid you're going blind. Tell me, can you see my hand, how many fingers-?" Oswald dangles his hand in front of the girl, fingers wiggling. 

 

Ivy giggles, slapping Oswald's hand away from her face. "I am not! Trust me, Ozzie. He's into you. Besides, I happen to be an expert on this stuff." 

 

"An expert?" Oswald repeats, beyond amused.

 

Ivy adjusts her floppy hat, holding it down against the wind. "Yes, I am." 

 

"Thank the deities that I have an expert on my side then."

 

"You're so weird." She says with a fondness that makes his chest ache. Even if his friendship with Jim ends up crumbling, he knows he’ll always have Ivy. She stands, stretching out her hand, "C'mon let's go walk along the shore." 

 

Oswald reluctantly takes the young girl's hand, letting her drag him closer to the water, even though anxiety begins to creep inside him the nearer he gets. He tries to ignore it, as well as Ivy's foolish comment about the detective liking him.

 

Ivy's arm stays wrapped around Oswald's as they walk along the shore, water brushing against the sand, grazing their bare feet. 

 

Her fingers squeeze his biceps to get his attention. 

 

"Hmm?"

 

"You know..." She starts slow, cautious almost, "I think he's good for you." 

 

"Ivy-"

 

"No, hear me out." 

 

Oswald remains silent, staring ahead. 

 

"You're different ever since he started coming around. You're not all mopey. It’s like… I don’t know… Oh! Okay, so it’s like you’re a plant, right? Dying, shriveled, lonely-”

 

“I get the picture, Ivy.”

 

“And then Detective Gordon comes around and suddenly the plant’s growing again!” Ivy exclaims, fingers tightening on his arm in excitement. Oswald winces at her grip.

 

"As much as I love hearing your plant analogies, I'm not a flower and neither is James."

 

"No, he's like a sun or something."

 

Oswald shakes his head, annoyed at how perceptive Ivy's getting. The girl is smart, always has been ‒ she could whip up concoctions from plant leaves and blend up a mixture that saved his life. The fact that she pinpointed his exact feelings for James has him reeling. 

 

She comes to a halt, grabbing his shoulders so he faces her. At first, he ignores meeting her eyes, looking over her shoulder to stare at the vast ocean, despite the tumultuous crashing waves of anxiety rolling in his gut at the view.

 

His eyes snap upward when she says, "Oswald, we're family.

 

"And I just want to see you happy. When Detective Gordon comes around, it's like he brightens up your day and the way he looks at you..."

 

That piques Oswald's interest. "What do you mean?"

 

"The same way you look at him like you’re his sun too.”

 

Oswald's heart flutters despite the absurdity of Ivy's statement. He swallows, trying to find some rebuttal, but he comes up short as he remembers the way Jim held his hand earlier that day as if he never planned on letting go. The way his thumb caressed his palm. 

 

Oswald shakes his head as if he could shake the foolish thoughts away. Jim probably didn't even realize what he was doing; besides, anything Jim has done in the last weeks could simply be explained as gestures of friendship. 

 

For the next couple days Oswald tries to forget his and Ivy's conversation at the beach, and even though he does manage to push it from his mind, he can't stop thinking about James. He begins to worry about the detective, growing more apprehensive after not hearing from him since that day in his office. 

 

Oswald attempts to distract himself, sitting in the study, mind wandering from the gardening book in his hands, recalling Jim declining his offer to help with his case. Jim hasn't told him much about that case, other than some serial killer escaped custody in another city and was using Gotham as his new hunting grounds. Oswald was sure he could use his old resources to get more information for the detective.

 

_ "Why don't you let me help? Maybe I can reach out-” _

 

_ Jim shook his head. “No. I don’t want you to get involved.” _

 

_ “But-” _

 

_ “Oswald, please.” Oswald peered up at him, meeting Jim’s soft gaze.There was a faint blush dusting over Jim’s cheeks. The detective ducked his head. Neither one spoke as they both watched, entranced, as Jim’s hand slid up Oswald’s arm before curling around his shoulder. “If something happens to you-” Jim cut himself off. _

 

_ Oswald’s head snapped up, surprised. _

 

_ “I can’t… I don’t want you to get hurt because of this, alright?" _

 

Jim didn’t want him to get involved because he was concerned about his safety. He wanted to protect him, but who was going to protect James? Oswald feels useless. Before, he could at least pull some strings, guarantee that the detective was safe or work alongside James as a team, joining forces as reluctant allies, but now? He can barely help. He is just a shadow of the person he used to be. Not as strong as before when he had a whole city at his beck and call. 

 

Except for James.

 

He had everyone under his thumb except for Jim Gordon. Back when the detective rarely spoke to him, ignored him most of the time. So maybe he had lost a lot of power when he retired, his control over this city has decreased tremendously, but he would rather have Jim Gordon’s friendship than power. 

 

Even if he has to sit on the sidelines and worry about Jim.

 

"Oswald?" 

 

The former mobster glances up from the book resting in his lap, slipping his thumb between the pages so he doesn't lose his place. 

 

Ivy stands in the doorway, absently wringing her hands, something she only does when she's anxious. 

 

A spark of fear twist in his gut. Oswald has a lot of enemies that didn't just vanish after he retired. A part of him was always afraid of war arriving on his doorsteps. His foes shrouded in an invisible cloak, shielding them from Oswald's view. That they would sneak through the night, surrounding the manor, striking Oswald at his most vulnerable. Turning his garden into a warzone, bullets ricocheting, piercing through the petals of his flowers.

 

It was only a matter of time.

 

"What's wrong, Ivy?" 

 

Ivy opens her mouth but doesn't speak, merely steps to the side, revealing a disheveled Jim Gordon behind her. 

 

"James?" Oswald straightens in his chair in surprise. 

 

The detective wordlessly enters the room, a haunted look in his bloodshot eyes. His face is completely devoid of any color. His clothes are rumpled, the knot of his tie is skewed. Tousled, golden strands of his hair falling forward, scattering over his forehead as if he has been running his fingers through it. 

 

Oswald scrambles to his feet, hurrying over to Jim. His hands flutter over Jim, unsure where to land, trying to find the hidden wound to put pressure on. "James, what happened-?" 

 

His voice drifts, words fastening to the tip of his tongue as Jim drops his forehead to Oswald's shoulder. Jim's broad shoulders collapse as if the tension is draining from his body.  

 

Jim shudders as Oswald wraps his arms around the detective as if his touch provides some kind of release. His fingertips glide upward, grazing the bare skin before burrowing into the hair just above the nape of Jim's neck. 

 

Oswald meets Ivy's widened eyes over Jim's shoulder. She's too shocked to react to their positions. Oswald can't blame the girl, he's speechless too. Ivy lifts an eyebrow, a silent question. Oswald nods and the young girl gives one last look at Jim before leaving.

 

Despite words failing him, Oswald runs his fingers through Jim's hair, petting the back of his head. Jim doesn't object, so Oswald continues the motions. 

 

He isn't sure how long they stay like that before Jim steps backward, holding out his shaking hands, revealing palms caked with dried blood. 

 

A horrified gasp leaves Oswald’s lips, “James, your hands…”

 

“It’s not mine.” 

 

He watches the detective for a moment, gauging the situation. Something happened tonight. Oswald has a guess that it might be related to the case Jim discussed the other day. Oswald doesn’t say a word. He has done this routine many times back when his name meant something. Everyone was warned of the Penguin’s bad temper and thirst for vengeance. Crossing him never bode well and Oswald spent many evenings with the splatter of blood on his face, running the small blade of his knife under the faucet. 

 

He leads Jim to the bathroom down the hall, to his own personal one. Even though the bathroom is small, he knew Ivy wouldn’t interrupt them there. The young girl has her own anyway. Jim never says a word, lets himself be dragged inside. Oswald's concerned with Jim’s silence and while he’s used to Jim’s brevity, he has never quite seen the detective like this before. Whatever happened, it left Jim torn in pieces, shattered like broken glass and Oswald doesn't know where to start picking up the shards. 

 

The room’s cramped, barely enough space for two grown men, but they make do. Jim sits on the edge of the clawfoot porcelain bathtub, and he rests his forearms on his thighs, staring at his hands.

 

Oswald dampens a washcloth, faucet squeaking as he runs warm water over the cloth. He moves forward, standing in the space between Jim's legs. He towers over the detective, throwing a wrench into their usual dynamic. Jim looks small, helpless, numbly staring ahead at the wall. It feels wrong, seeing the detective like this. 

 

Oswald reaches for one of his hands. He goes slow, softly scrubbing at the blood. He squeezes the cloth, water drops splashing, landing on Jim’s hands. Oswald gently runs the washcloth over his palm, following the creases, leaving a wet trail behind.

 

Oswald’s heart breaks when he glances up, catching Jim’s anguished expression. The bathroom’s dim lighting deepens the shadows along Jim's face, cheeks hollow, stark dark circles underneath his eyes. There’s no warmth like the light burned out of him, a bitter coldness emanates from him as if the sun has disappeared forever.  

 

Scarlet stains fade to orange, turning lighter and lighter until Jim’s skin is scrubbed pink. Not a trace of blood remains, but Oswald doesn’t release his hands just yet. He pretends his fingers are matches, that he could ignite the sun once more with tender touches. It’s like standing on a piece of driftwood in the middle of the ocean, arms stretch to the skies, hoping it could be simple as tugging on a cord, switching back on the sun like a lightbulb. 

 

Gotham’s his home, but Oswald knows the perils of staying in this city. The dangers that lurk every corner. Overrun by criminals and most of them hide behind a badge or a politician smile. Living anywhere else would feel like a betrayal, but Oswald mourns the innocence and naivety that Gotham rips from a person. He remembers the bright-eyed and bushy-tailed young detective he met in that dirty alleyway, so determined to clean up the streets, regardless of the cost, but Gotham had chewed Jim and spit him out. Years living here altered Jim, turned him harder, but his fight for Gotham’s soul never wavered once.

 

Jim lost the battle tonight. His hands are evidence that blood was shed. There’s a familiar look in his expression, like a returning soldier who has seen too much war, too many countless piles of bodies accumulating, the stench of gunpowder and blood soaking their boots. Jim has run through trenches of Gotham like a one-man army on a mission, resurfacing a little less whole than he was when he stormed in, like a chunk of his soul’s missing.

 

Oswald wants to chase the torment away, but he doesn’t know how. He settles on Ivy’s approach when she yanked Oswald out of his misery: talking. 

 

“Do you ever think about that day at the pier?” Oswald’s thumb brushes over Jim’s clean palm, tracing the creases and wrinkles. “When you spared me?”

 

“I do,” Oswald answers his own question when Jim doesn’t respond. He smiles. “Did Falcone ever tell you that I asked specifically for you to shoot me?”

 

That catches Jim’s attention. He croaks like his mouth is dry, “What?”

 

“Oh, you didn’t know…” Oswald shrugs off his surprise. “The old man always did like to keep his cards close to his chest.” 

 

“Why me, though?”

 

Oswald raises his gaze from Jim’s hands, meeting his stare directly. “Because no one else would have saved me, but I knew you would. Do you ever regret it, sparing me?”

 

Jim’s already shaking his head. 

 

“If I could go back… I’d do the same thing.” 

 

“That’s why I picked you. Your morality is what I always liked about you, Jim. Always doing the right thing despite the consequences. You're willing to save anyone, even lowly umbrella boys. I don’t know what happened tonight, but this?” Oswald holds up Jim’s hands, cupping them with his own. “It wasn’t your fault.”

 

Jim’s voice breaks. "I-I messed up tonight and my mistake cost the life of a civilian. I… I  _ tried  _ to stop the bleeding, Oswald. It was just too late. I was too late. I couldn't save them." 

 

A broken sob escapes Jim's throat as the detective pulls him closer, burying his face in Oswald's shirt. Jim's soft warm breath seeps through the thin material of his shirt, heating up the skin just above his navel. 

 

Oswald’s heart is pounding, echoing back in his ears. His hands hover, trapped in uncertainty, before he lowers them, curling them around the back of Jim's head.

 

"It’s okay, James." 

 

Oswald's attempts at soothing seem to be effective, the detective leans away, Oswald’s hands sliding over each side of Jim’s neck, falling and resting on Jim’s shoulders.

 

Oswald's never seen anything as beautiful. Big blue eyes staring up at him, slightly red around the corners from crying. Disheveled blonde hair unruly, tumbling forward across his forehead. There are damp spots dotted along Oswald's shirt, evidence of Jim's tears. His lips rosy and slightly apart as he breathes, the barest hint of his teeth peeking through. 

 

He wants to kneel before him, between his spread legs, and kiss away Jim's pain. Gently press his lips against Jim's tear-stained cheeks. Tasting the salt. He'd pepper Jim's face with kisses until he reaches the detective's mouth. He wants Jim to lose himself in the kiss, forgetting everything that has transpired this evening. 

 

The urge to kiss Jim is overwhelming, but Oswald has to remind himself that Jim Gordon only needs a friend now. He pushes aside his feelings for the detective, even though it hurts. Oswald made that mistake before, something he'll refuse to repeat. He won't ruin this blossoming friendship. 

 

Oswald settles for pushing that rebellious golden strand away from Jim's forehead. 

 

“You’re sunburnt,” Jim quietly notes, his hand reaching up, closing the limited space between them, but he doesn’t touch, fingertips only hover over Oswald’s cheekbone.

 

“Ah, yes, the perils of going to the beach.” He blushes under Jim’s unwavering stare. “I went with Ivy the other day, just like you wanted.” 

 

“Does it hurt?”

 

“Only a little.”

 

It seems as if the detective’s color has returned to his face, his cheeks flushed. He appears better than he had when he arrived, but he still looked lost, unsure of what to do.

 

After the shooting, Oswald was lost too. The nights were the worst. Too restless to sleep. Listening to the sounds of water rushing over him, like shackles, pinning Oswald underneath the surface. Water replacing air, filling his ears, his mouth, his lungs until he couldn't breathe. 

 

Those nights when Oswald’s unable to forget the harsh currents of Gotham's harbor, he ventures to dry land instead of sleeping. Slipping outside to remind himself that the water hasn't swallowed him whole. Sometimes he stays outside until dawn breaks.

 

Oswald reaches out, clutching Jim's hand. "Let's get some air." 

 

Jim follows him without a sound. 

 

The night air rushes to their lungs once they step out onto the patio, filling them up. Suddenly, it’s as if they both can breathe again. The bathroom was too stuffy to properly catch one’s breath.

 

Oswald glances over at Jim, their hands still intertwined, and he realizes that Jim’s just as beautiful standing under the moonlight as he is under the sun. The moon shines down upon them and while it casts shadows around Oswald, it illuminates Jim’s face. The light clings to him as if drawn to the goodness within him, like moths to a flickering flame.

 

Even the sun needs to rest, dipping out of view while the moon takes its place, just for a little while, until the sun can swoop back up in the sky. 

 

He's aware that he'll never be able to stand next to Jim, that he won't shine as brightly as Jim does underneath the light, but he doesn't want to. Oswald sticks to the shadows, just so Jim can shine. 

 

Oswald will do whatever he can to ensure that the light burning in Jim doesn't get smothered. He squeezes Jim’s hand, a blanket of stars twinkles above them, as they follow the moonlit path towards the wooden swing set that Oswald had installed once his garden started to flourish. 

 

He lets go of Jim's hand once they reach the swing, but Jim once more seeks out Oswald's fingers, his hand curling around Oswald's as soon as they sit down, barely any space between their bodies.

 

Oswald's heart stutters, but he pays no attention. Reminding himself that Jim is merely searching for comfort, clutching Oswald's hand provides a chance to anchor himself. He'll keep Jim steady even if it means he'll drown.

 

The night is brimming with life. Cricket chirps, hidden behind the tall blades of grass. There's a chorus of tree frogs croaking, echoing from beyond the surrounding trees. Fireflies zip through the air, lighting up the night around them. 

 

"I used to come out here and sit back when… after the shooting," Oswald explains, and he can feel the detective shift, turning his heavy gaze on Oswald.

 

He takes a breath. "I would just close my eyes and listen."

 

Oswald closes his eyes, breathing in the sweet aroma of the summer night air. His nostrils flare as the scent of flowers carries over to them by the warm breeze. 

 

When he opens his eyes, he finds that James followed his example, closing his eyes shut, breathing deep and softly. 

 

Oswald has to look away. 

 

Jim's head starts to droop, sinking slowly, before startling himself awake. Exhaustion catches up with him and Jim doesn’t put up much of a fight. His head rolls to the side, falling onto Oswald's shoulder as he drifts to sleep.

 

Oswald’s breath hitches, eyes trailing from Jim to their entwined hands. He tries to calm his racing heart, but he fails as he realizes he's dug further than he intended to. Feelings he has tried to suppress come rushing to the surface. 

 

Oswald has completely fallen for James Gordon.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from here: http://www.azquotes.com/quote/1463064


End file.
